30 poems in 30 days
15 April 2013
The Decline of Cassie and the Cordolynes
Oh, Cassie, don’t leave us now!
This is your season to soar.
If you were the band I’d envisioned
you to be, we would be plotting
your tour; the map crawling in
pin-holes, amassing coloured buds.
Instead you threaten to hang up
your crown, bow your head.
Don’t you know your spikey-topped
rhythms excite me still? I rescued
you from the nursery you’d long
out-grown; watched you unfurl
and reach towards the heights.
We could have got through those
dark days if only I had recognised
your desires and nurtured you more. If only
I had allowed the experimental
sabbatical, let you move into wrap, which
is where it’s at, by now you would
have been unveiled, emerged confident
and proud; the artiste I promised
the world. I took too much for granted,
believed you were stronger, comfortable in
terrain that is harder, edgier, rockier. I should
have known nothing fences you in;
I wanted to keep you firm, offering my
solid ground, but I see now you couldn’t
be rooted this way. You grow further
away each day, sinking into your shell.
What led to this dip, our friendship fraying
with your fronds? I know the sun has
mocked you, left you out in the cold,
lacking the headlines you crave. Stand
against this; ride the chill of this wind;
nothing is forever. Was it watching the
cordolynes become pot-bound? Was it
the ice-white powder finally dragging you
down? These are risks which blight
the powerful. You are an icon without
question. Am I at fault for putting
the cordolynes on a pedestal while
leaving you to the ground? I admit
I raised them up; I had to stop the rot.
Your life could be so much richer than
the pot to which they succumbed. I know
the weed has threatened you, too, but you
grew above all that. In rehabilitating them,
have I sent you further underground?
I worried my back yard wasn’t big enough
for you. You are taller, more majestic
than a cordolyne can ever hope to be.
I love those two, but they’re not you.
Was I wrong to grant your freedom
when all you wanted was to be cosseted,
caressed? Did I shroud your winter by not
taking a good enough hold? As days warm,
you grow browner in a rebellion that is sick.
When did you last taste nourishment?
Oh, Cassie, don’t leave us now!
An attempt to go it solo never works.
You must rise my phoenix canariensis;
I’m already planning revivals for this band.